The Journey So Far

A chronological stroll thru the history of Broadway Musicals as they came to be recorded by Hollywood--the summation of a lifelong vocation, and a journey of self discovery. Equal parts cultural history, critique and personal memoir. Comingnext: Jersey Boys

Monday, March 31, 2014

Fiddler on the Roof

November
3, 1971 United Artists 179 minutes

I have always found my Russian heritage a source of
discomfort. Tho Russian was my first tongue, my parents kept my ancestry from
me thru my early years, calling us Yugoslavian--out of paranoia, which, at
least in part translated to shame. Of course during the height of the Cold War,
Russians were ceaselessly demonized in America. And as I was pointedly
deprived of any cultural upbringing, I would hardly warm to the tropes of the
Motherland on my own when dazzled by the American Pop right in front of my
nose. Not all Russian immigration to America was Jewish. Both my parents
were from Oryol--a thoroughly undistinguised city the size and dullness of Duluth or Bakersfield, 300
miles southwest of Moscow.
They lived on opposite sides of town and never knew each other until later in Germany. It
wasn't the pogroms of Czarist Russia that evicted them, but the German
occupation of Oryol for two years (1941-43) that sent half the town packing
with the Hun's retreat, knowing the returning Soviets would be merciless with
those who had remained and "collaborated." My father's family, being
vintners, were prosperous enuf to have their house occupied by German officers
for the duration, which decided their fate thereafter; forced migration to
Germany thru War's end, and eventual passage across the Atlantic on false
papers--refugees instead of repatriates sent back to Stalin's whim. I knew next
to nothing of all this, until Baba clued me in during my teens--much to my
father's chagrin. Unlike him, his mother would never forget her roots, nor lose
her nostalgia for "The Old Country." Which in fact was an early title
for Fiddler on the Roof.

My DNA suggests this would be among my all-time favorites,
so I feel almost guilty that it isn't--not that I don't like and respect the
musical tremendously. It would be churlish not to. Such a glorious achievment;
the crown and capstone of Jerome Robbins' career on Bway; the summit of Bock
& Harnick's journey to carry forth the R&H mantle; the legendary
largess of Zero Mostel. Even so, who would've thought that first fall when it
opened in 1964 that it would outlast Dolly!,
run longer than My Fair Lady and
everything else in Bway history; that this modest Jewish folktale would have
universal resonance in ways no one dared to imagine. While in tryout, as Fiddler was heading for NY, there was little
hope of crossover appeal--this one was for the Tri-State Jews; perhaps a one or
two season run, at most. Even more than She
Loves Me, the show at first was perceived as too "special" until
it suddenly became Special. But where Golden Age classics like Carousel
or Kiss Me Kate or My Fair Lady, even West Side Story, are first and foremost great scores, Fiddler's reputation rests on its
production, its ceremonial tribute to a universal diaspora.

One Russian trait (and perhaps the only one) that I
proudly embrace is a passion for music. Ruskies are serious drunkards, and
intensely romantic when intoxicated, especially over music. Mother Russia has
produced some of world's great composers (Danny Kaye sang a whole laundry list
of them in Lady in the Dark's
"Tchaikovsky") But the roots of the American musical and popular
song, originated in great measure with the Slavic Jewish diaspora and its
descendents: Kern, Berlin, Gershwin, Arlen, Rodgers & Hart. (Cole Porter was
that rare Wasp exception). Here's where my roots kicked in--this music was in
my blood, and I found it essentially on my own, early in my conscious life. I
can't recall my father liking any music whatsoever, and mother seemed to go
along with whatever was light and breezy. But Baba, tho her taste might've been
plebian, was truly passionate (and even sans vodka--tho she brewed a killer
cherry infusion), openly emotional over music. Many a time I'd see her sitting
on her low divan, her eyes lost in space as she intently listened to
Tchaikovsky, or anything suggesting Russian motifs: the soundtrack to Doctor Zhivago, pop songs like
"Those Were the Days" and "Love is Blue," Fiddler.

I first heard the album sometime over the summer of '66,
when I was allowed the rare privilege of checking out records from the downtown
LA library, and scooped it up (along with Funny
Girl, and Hello, Dolly!) The
score, tho not without its joys, always felt a bit thin to me. After a platter
of riches in the first act, the second has nothing of prime caliber--not to
mention a mood that deepens in gloom, racing toward evisceration and exodus. Is
there a more mournful 11 o'clock number than "Anatevka"? Undeniably,
that's what the story calls for, but as one who holds Jerry Bock in the highest
regard, I can't help but feel "Miracle of Miracles," "Now I Have
Everything," and "Far From the Home I Love" are subpar compared
to songs from his less successful musicals, Tenderloin,
The Apple Tree, The Rothschilds. "Do You Love Me," is one of
those "knowing" senior duets, like Gigi's "I Remember it Well," that numb you with obvious
cutesinesss. The astute critic, Walter Kerr, one of the show's few detractors,
thought, "It might be an altogether charming musical if only the people of
Anatevka did not pause every now and then to give their regrards to Broadway,
with remembrances to Herald Square."
If that seems a bit unfair, a song like "Matchmaker, Matchmaker"
could be Exhibit A--a broom-sweep of a waltz, it became an unlikely crossover
hit, with the elimination of its middle section ("Hodel, oh Hodel, have I
made a match for you...") It also deserves mention as Bette Midler's first
song on a NY stage (she played Tzeitel for 3 years from Feb '67 to Feb '70).
Tevye's soliloquoy, "If I Were a Rich Man" enjoyed a life outside the
show as well--understandably so, it's a masterful performance piece. But the
score's farthest-reaching contribution is the peerless wedding song, "Sunrise, Sunset" a
sentimental waltz with bittersweet shading (exotic enuf to be used, and
unironically, in an Addams Family movie); a model of simplicity that defies
cliche. Like their "Till Tomorrow" from Fiorello! this Bock & Harnick tune stands up to the best of
Rodgers or Berlin.
Aside from Robbins' bottle dance and wedding festivities, the show's one true
bit of exuberance is "To Life/"L'Chaim"--the kind of Russian
rodeo that would set Baba's heart afire. And truth to tell, mine as well. Aside
from these the musical's highlights are more of Robbins' set pieces. The
seminal opening, "Tradition," which brilliantly conveys theme,
character and exposition in a tight circle-of-life. "The Tailor, Motel
Kamzoil" (better known as "Teyve's Dream" is more dramatic
playlet than musical number; a series of motifs rarther than song, it's first
& foremost a coup de theatre--executed
to perfection. With Fiddler it's the
telling more than the tale that makes the show exalted.

The show's success let producer Hal Prince hold off on a
film sale for several years. Now that the long-established, unwritten rule
dictating a Bway closing before a Hlwd opening was broken by Hello Dolly!--with no discernible damage
to its still-running stage version--Fiddler
followed suit, again with no particular drain to the Bway company. Both play
and pic ran simultaneously within two blocks of each other on Broadway for a
good eight months. The stage show (after setting a new record Bway run) gave up
first, leaving the movie at the Rivoli for another half year --a Roadshow run of
57 weeks, recalling the glory days or yore. But it was the end of the line for
the format. A few more flops in '72, and the Roadshow was officially dead; the
movie musical barely breathing. But Fiddler
was impervious to these trends. A musical whose emotional connection to
audiences transcended any cheap sentimentality or parochialism. United Artists
was one studio that didn't go crazy after Sound
of Music set Hlwd in a tizzy, nor even to follow up their own breakthru
success, West Side Story. Their only
other musical purchases of the '60s were the two big comedy hits, How to Succeed and Forum--neither of which were inflated for the screen or given
Roadshow release. Producer Walter Mirsich (who fielded West Side Story and How to
Succeed to UA) fell in love with Fiddler
and outbid all others. But he wasn't going to chance working with Jerome
Robbins again. Robert Wise might have been an obvious choice for director, but
a fallback for Mirisch was Norman Jewison, who had put an Oscar in Mirisch's
hands for In the Heat of the Night,
and gave him hits with The Russians Are
Coming and The Thomas Crown Affair.
But like many before him, Jewison had never made a musical before. (Tho he
thinks having helmed some TV variety shows was experience enuf.) Working with
original librettist, Joseph Stein, Jewison (who despite his name, was goyishe)
took a naturalistic approach, toning down the show's humor, its vaudeville
nature, its choreographed cohesion--none of which suited his vision. It's a
darker, more serious Fiddler than the
Bway musical, looking for depth more in dramatic scenes than musical
sequences., or comic moments worthy of Sholom Aleichem's original tales.

The first casualty of this approach was Zero Mostel.
Regarded as a towering presence, initially he seemed bigger than the show
itself. (He himself predicted the grosses would plummet once he left. To
everyone's surprise they were SRO for another two years.) Mostel capped his
career with this role, much as Rex Harrision had with Higgins. But like Carol
Channing, he was always larger than life. It worked for his role as Psuedolus
in Forum--his rubber-faced
conniptions suited the pace and style of the movie. But not here, with
Jewison's vision of "realism"--subtlety wasn't in Zero's playbook.
You could see why Danny Thomas thought to make a bid for the role on vaguely
ethnic grounds--which might also apply to Walter Matthau. But Richard Burton?
Rod Steiger? Sinatra? Wiser heads prevailed. And happily we were also spared Danny
Kaye's Hans Teyve Andersen.My personal choice would've been Herschel Bernardi, who is
Sheldon Harnick's stated favorite Tevye as well. Bernardi had starred on Bway
in Bajour and Zorba, as well as two years ('65-'67), as Tevye, following Mostel
and Luther Adler. He had command, personality, a little sex appeal and was also
funny--without the largess of Mostel--but with as much vocal range and
character. Passed over, he signed for a CBS sitcom, Arnie, which kept him busy from 1970-72. (Full disclosure: a show I
watched and enjoyed,) In the end Mirisch & Jewison chose their Tevye from
the London
company, a 35 year-old Israeli actor, Chaim Topol.

Fiddler was too communal, too archetypal a
show to be owned by any one actor. Zero was sui
generis, but Tevye is everyman--he needn't be a Star--and more often than
not isn't played by one. (Not to mention how many 14 year old boys have had a
turn at Jewish Youth camps). Topol first made notice in a popular Israeli
movie, Sallah (nominated for Best
Foreign Film at the '65 Oscars), in which at age 28 he played a fifty-something
patriarch. On the basis of this performance he was summoned to audition for
Tevye in London,
shocking everyone with his youth. But with the evidence on screen they were
convinced he would convince, and so he did--down the line thru auditions for
the movie. If he is now the primary (if not definitive) actor identified with
Tevye, it's not merely from the film but the many tours and revivals he
toplined from 1967-2009. (He even got a Tony nom for a '91 Bway revival.) As
Teyve's original vis a vis, Maria
Karnilova wasn't considered for the film any more than Zero. Long a Jerome
Robbins dancer, she was a Bway baby, and Fiddler
gave her acting status, a Tony, and led to a bigger starring role in Zorba. But her sole movie appearance as
a painted harlot in The Unsinkable Molly
Brown wasn't much of a screen audition. For the sharp-tongued Golde to play
off Topol's Tevye they considered Anne Jackson, Colleen Dewhurst, Geraldine
Page, Claire Bloom and initially Anne Bancroft, who thought the role too
subservient. In the end they hired Norma Crane--an actress with minor TV
credits, unknown to most but with a clear similiarity to Bancroft, in looks and
delivery. Which is to say, like most of the women above, lacking any genuine
Semetic qualities. As if to compensate, Jewison cast Yente with Yiddish theater
icon, Molly Picon--then in her mid-70s, and sadly missing the mark, despite her
ethnic authenticity. Picon plays Yente like a mouse instead of the crocodile
Bea Arthur made of her on Bway. As for the daughters, there's so little
physical similarity, you gotta wonder about Golde's fidelity. As Tzeitel,
Rosalind Harris is anything but goyishe (tho what a shame Bette Midler didn't
get the role), but apple-cheeked Michele Marsh, playing Hodel, looks neither
Russian nor Jewish, and even less like her sisters. The youngest two, as
always, barely register. (Quick, what are their character names?)

Only Neva
Small's Chava has any real screen presence, albeit of a very untypical kind:
freckled-faced and slightly dorky in a Fanny Brice manner. Small's appearance
was a bit of a thrill for me, having long been enamored of her vocals on Henry, Sweet, Henry--plaintive and
soaring, not quite like Alice Playten, but special in her own way. (Bob Merrill
liked her enuf to star her opposite Robert Preston in his failed '78 musical, The Prince of Grand Street) But I liked
her mostly because she was like the Jewish girls I knew in school. And she's
rather adorable.

As the original Motel, the Tailor, Austin Pendleton was as
unique a performer as Zero. To see him in full mettle, as he was allowed in the
movie What's Up Doc? is to love him.
As his understudy and eventual successor, Leonard Frey was one of only two Bway
cast members to make the movie (the other is Zvee Scooler, who playes the
ancient Rabbi). Frey has a sleepy, nebbishy manner that's all the more
remarkable in contrast to his role in The
Boys in the Band which came out the year before. where he plays the
acid-tongued, highly affected queen, Harold--which I, in my idiotic teenage naïveté,
thought was cool enuf to emulate for some weeks afterward. In Fiddler his dewy-eyed sincerity won him
an Oscar nomination. Rounding out the cast was Paul Mann, an Actors Studio
teacher as Lazar Wolf. Louis Zorich (Olympia Dukakis's hubby) as the village
constable; and Michael Glaser as Perchik, the revolutionary student (played
originally by Bert Convy);

Glaser would add Paul as his first name and find
greater fame several years later as the first-named cop in the TV series, Starsky & Hutch. Thus, a cast was
assembled. Jewison had no interest in a studio-bound production and with Russia and the Eastern bloc mostly out of reach,
he found stand-in Slavic villages in Yugoslavia, mainly untouched by
20th century progress. Tho technically behind the Iron Curtain, Yugoslavia,
ruled by "benevolent dictator" Tito, was occasionally open for
foreign film production. They arrived in summer and stayed into winter to
capture the seasons.

Tradition! The famous key Robbins unlocked to give the
show cohesion, thrust, universal appeal and an opening number is hardly lost on
Jewison--he gets it, and makes sure we do too, having Topol bellow the word at
the camera at frequent intervals. But there's a second key, equally as
important to the structure and unity of Fiddler,
and that is: community. It's striking how much Jewison fails to convey this.
Robbins had his village circle on stage; each member having a defined role and
place in the community. This didn't have the story-telling remove that Hal
Prince later framed over Zorba, but
told its tale as a collective effort. Jewison thinks he conveys the Russian
landscape with a few brushstrokes of wide open fields or a patch of birch
forest, but everyone feels so low to the ground in this movie, there's rarely
even a sense of the sky. It's the antithesis of Doctor Zhivago. Even Oswald Morris's crane shots rise only to look
sharply down to the ground, not to grasp a wider view. And a nylon stocking was
stretched over the lens to lend a brown, dirt-encrusted veneer to everything
including the sky--there isn't a true blue in the entire movie. (Naturally,
Morris would win a Oscar for the cinematography). But there are bigger issues.
There's no real sense of what Anatevka comprises, The visuals are not in the
least orienting--shots well into the last reel are unfamiliar and don't match
up to any previous locations. Unlike Music
Man's RiverCity or the Shoreditch of Oliver!, Anatevka fails to register any
visual impression (which it should, despite Teyve's claim that people who've
been thru, "don't even know they've been here"). Perhaps lack of
visual continuity wouldn't matter if this indifference didn't extend as well to
the townsfolk. Outside of Tevye's family, Lazar Wolf, Yente, and the Rabbi,
there's nary a character or a face that makes anything more than fleeting
impact or invites us into the tribe. Some of this could be attributed to the
extras hired on location in Yugoslavia;
none of them actors--few of them consistent thru the story. We should know them
by film's end (as we do in RiverCity) as familiar
neighbors--especially in such a tight knit society. As if that weren't flaw
enuf, Jewison then makes the fatal decision to film most of the ensemble
numbers sans performance; vocal tracks laid over visuals. No one on screen
sings, no one dances thru "Tradition" (except, absurdly, for our
narrator, Tevye) and it curdles the whole experience. Instead of seeing the
community in musical harmony, we're fed literal respresentations of the lyrics
over pans of Jewish peasant faces, silent, staring, working.
"Anatevka" is one long Ukrainian Walker Evans montage.

Whatsmore the
choral tracks sound blandly generic, reducing such wonderful numbers as "Sunrise, Sunset" and
"Sabbath Prayer" to Hallmark moments, brought to you by the Mitch
Miller singers. Just who are we to think is singing anyway? God's chorale? It's
a mistake, and one which seriously damages the movie. On the DVD commentary,
Jewison takes pride in the idea. He also admits to being stumped in the staging
of other numbers; touting the lucky improvisation of "Miracle of
Miracles"--running about in the woods. It's a lazy blueprint that gives
little credence to his understanding of a musical. But this also demonstrates
the indestructible commercial appeal of Fiddler.
Predictably he's better working with the actors in book scenes. I have to admit
the exchange between Tevye and Lazar Wolf, confusing his interest in Tzeitel
for a dairy cow, had me laughing heartily out loud each time I watched it.

If Louis Armstrong could cross-promote Hello, Dolly! with a shamelessly
anachronistic cameo, then why not get Isaac Stern for Anatevka's fiddler? He's
not even needed in the flesh, suffice he's on the soundtrack. Musical director
John Williams (still in his pre-Spielberg years) gave Stern some fancy violin
solos, beginning with the opening credits. Bock's melodic line is well worthy
of Stern's nimble fiddling. Otherwise the score is given the usual Hwld
steroidal symphonic upgrade. This might be less annoying if the vocals were
better. To ears accustomed to Zero Mostel's precise diction and comic timing,
Topol sounds garbled, with inflections that consistently miss the mark. He
doesn't hear the humor in the speech--something that apparently didn't bother
Jewison, who went for a sadder, but wiser peasant. Topol is convincing enuf
playing older, but he doesn't really have to stretch his age that much. Tevye
could technically be as young as 40--tho he's often played by pensioners. You
wouldn't know it but Norma Crane is seven years older than Topol, (She would
die only two years later at age 44.)

Altho it was standard Roadshow practice, the film
dispenses with an overture. No shots from way above to helicopter us down into the
Ukranian plain, but rather dawn as seen at chicken coop eye-level; looking up
on high to a fiddler on a (single-story) roof. Speaking directly into the
camera, Tevye invites us into "Tradition," joined (off-screen) by the
Johnny Williams singers; while scenes of village life slavishly illustrate the
lyrics. (One real head-scratcher is why they rewrote Tevye's line, "...the
time he sold him a horse but delivered a mule," to "...sold him a
horse and told him it was six years old, when it was really twelve." Was
that supposed to be an improvement? A clarification? Did it make more sense?)
It's a rousing number aurally, but in the end Tevye is cavorting alone with his
horse while the chorus blares on the soundtrack. Jewison thinks this is clever,
even innovative. It's annoying. "Matchmaker" is better, a
clothes-line waltz for three sisters that gives Neva Small to a chance to
shine.

Jewison has Topol working chores in his barn, thruout his soliloquoy,
"If I Were a Rich Man" ending with him clomping down on horseshit.
And why not? It was something Robbins couldn't do. (Many of the songs
incorporate labor or some form of ceremony) Tevye's family (we never know their
surname, do we?) actually sing the "Sabbath Prayer" but as the chorus
builds and the camera moves thru other homes, why don't we see those people
singing? It's inconsistent and irksome. "To Life" perks up the movie
a good deal, not surprisingly, being the first vestige of Robbins' choreography
(recreated by his assistants: Tom Abbott & Sammy Bayes). Even this is shot
so low to the ground, at times angled thru the legs of a table, as if even high
spirits aren't deserving of height. With the Russian cossacks joining in
celebration, the number threatens to turn into a version of The Dance at the
Gym, each side doing all but yelling, "Mambo!" A similar thing
happens at the later wedding--Robbins likes these "challenge"
ensembles--when they are justified--and so they are.

"Tevye's Dream"
also borrows heavily from Robbins, as well it should. Jewison moves the scene
into a Chas Addams graveyard--one of the few artifical sets in the movie, as
befits an imagined dream; moves into monochrome, and perhaps loses the nylon
stocking filter. It's creatively done
and essentially the musical highlight of the film, tho a third-rate opera diva
(Ruth Madoc) makes a weak Fruma Sarah. The first act is a beaut of construction
and variety of score, culminating in a wedding--shattered by an act of
violence. Essentially it's the whole story. What is there yet to learn in the
second half? We already know Hodel will follow Perchik, Chava will stray from
the tribe with Feydka; and everyone else will be forced from their homeland.

A brisk entr'acte, the closest to an overture Fiddler ever gets, is more lively than
anything in the 68 minutes that follow. Perchick shyly proposes to Hodel, but
Jewison cut his victorious moment, "Now I Have Everything," asking
Bock & Harnick for a new song, more political in nature. "Any Day Now,"
(heard on the soundtrack reissue) tho on the surface a better song, proved less
suited to the sentiment of the moment, and was cut before the film's release,
leaving Glaser with no song of his own (which was no loss, if you hear his
voice). "Do You Love Me?" is toned down from its stage vaudeville
leanings, but Norma Crane's tempered characterization feels like a poorly
studied idea of a Jewish mother by a Presbyterian communtiy theater actress. A
new scene of Perchik protesting in Kiev,
ending in violence is both unnecessary and unconvincing--it feels like padding.
As does Golde's visit to an Orthodox church to learn about Chava's defiant
marriage. Jewison does what he can with Robbins' impressionistic "Chava
Ballet," a fuzzy memory of his daughters, bathed in orange, dancing on a
hill. His choice of faith over family is crushing enuf, but now comes the final
straw: eviction. Forced to sell all they own in three days (but to whom?) the
Jews pack and depart over the long, dragged out last half hour, a musical
whose music evaporates. "Anatevka" begins with the principles
talk/singing the number, but then morphs into a montage of silent faces and
stills even as the chorus swells. The inconsistency between what's visibly sung
and what's sung on voice-over, as God's celestial soundtrack, is truly
maddening. Stein's stage script has the littlest girls happily chirping,
"We're going on a train, and a boat!" to which Golde snaps the final
joke: "Behave yourself! We're not in America yet." A laugh to
relieve the audience's mounting tears. But the movie drops this, lingering
instead on the trudge thru mud and snow across the hardscrapple landscape (as
if we didn't get the hardship of their exodus), until the final image of the
orphan fiddler (the metaphoric souvenir of Anatevka) invited to join Teyve's
party, on a bleak, colorless patch of rocky road. No sooner do his (Isaac
Stern's) final notes land on the ear, the symphonic orchestra thunders on with
some rousing exit music.

The movie premiered November 3rd at the Rivoli. And altho
it was accessible to me in California, I
didn't see it until the following September, with Baba (again) in New York. My lack of
urgency must've been validated by my initial reception, for, improbable tho it
seems, I've never watched the movie again until now. Undeniably the film was a
big hit for United Artists--the last Roadshow smash, amassing $34,000,000 in
film rentals over its several-year rollout--in its time among the top 20
all-time grossers. The pic also had an unusual International appeal for a
musical, and was dubbed in at least half a dozen languages. Jewison says the
most effective translation was in German--given that it sounds closest, by far,
to Yiddish. But the musical lost none of its cachet on stage either. Three Bway
revivals maintained, as does nearly every production, Jerome Robbins' original
concept and staging. (These were each headlined by Zero Mostel, Herschel
Bernardi and Topol). It wasn't until 2004 that permission was granted for a new
approach. British director David Leveaux, eschewed the Chagall-like scenery of
Boris Aronson for a lean, harsher look and cast a distinctly non-Semitic Alfred
Molina and Randy Graff (later Andrea Martin) for the leads. The production was
much criticized for draining much of the Jewish feeling of the piece, but
nonetheless ran for two years. Amusingly, later replacements, Harvey Fierstein
& Rosie O'Donnell--two blatantly gay actors--barely raised any eyebrows.

It seems just right that Fiddler should be the crowning achievment of the musical's Golden
Age (tho not quite as white hot a phenom as My
Fair Lady); a Jewish folk tale portraying the ancestry of those who came to
define and dominate Bway and Hlwd. But no "Golden Age" ends at its
peak. It must decline and fall, which is what happened to the Bway musical from
'67 to '71, when deconstruction of the form served as metaphor in Follies. The final lap of the R&H
era, '70-'71 was the second rare season where no Bway musicals caught Hlwd's
fancy. Even plays were less tempting now. Only three seasons earlier Bway was
still selling 8-10 plays a year for movie fodder. This year was a new low, just
three: Sleuth, Lenny, and a dreary Neil Simon play The Gingerbread Lady (renamed Only
When I Laugh). As it had been in the past, Bway product held a certain
cachet. Two of these 3 films were Best Pic nominees, and no less than 7 actors
got nods as well (tho none won.) The '71-'72 season on Bway left no doubt a new
era (a Silver Age?) had begun: Jesus
Christ Superstar, Two Gentlemen of Verona, Ain't Supposed to Die a Natural
Death, Godspell--shows that would've been unthinkable entries five years
earlier, now big hits. A corner had unmistakably been turned. Much as the Bway
landscape was shifting, so too was Hlwd, with 1971 another transitional year.
The Academy had one foot in the traditional, (curiously, two Russian-themed
Roadshow epics--Fiddler and a rather
flat Twilight-of-the-Czars, Nicholas
& Alexandra), and one foot in the new wave: Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange, Bogdanovich's Last Picture Show and Friedkin's The French Connection (the eventual
victor). It was clear which way the tide was turning: Carnal Knowledge, The Hospital, Klute, McCabe & Mrs. Miller and
Sunday Bloody Sunday were further evidence that this wasn't the '60s
anymore. And tho Fiddler walked off
with three statues, they were for technical achievments only.

As fate would have it, Fiddler
was the first show I saw on Bway--tho it was then well in its 6th year. I'd
previously seen a bus & truck company in Santa Monica, with my mother, on a rainy
Saturday matinee sometime in '68. The house was cavernous and our seats too far
back; the experience more melancholy than memorable. To be honest I don't
recall much of the Bway outing either, other than my excitement at stepping
into the Majestic Theater and walking thru Shubert Alley for the very first
time. Tho she certainly knew about it, Baba hadn't yet seen the show, and loved
it on a level I couldn't possibly conjure. That first, Bway-saturated, vacation
was so fulfilling, I returned the next summer for an even longer stay. Baba was
71 then, and still working as a garment district seamstress, taking care of her
legally-blind, feeble-minded sister, Vera, and another old Russian emigre--a
real life Uncle Fester, who dwelled like a gopher in a pantry-sized room with a
dingy lightwell view. Not only would she rush home each evening to cook us all
dinner; she let my friend Bill stay for a few weeks each summer, as well. This
was the year of Follies and No, No, Nanette! the yin and yang of
musical comedy--the sweet embrace of exuberance and silliness; or the complex,
deconstructive, intellectualism of show biz metaphors. I saw each three times. Follies was breathtaking, often
electrifying--and just as often tedious in its central quartet's unrelatable
problems. Tho less elaborate Nanette
was an eyeful as well, and ultimately more satisfying: a true sugar high. I
hightailed it over to the 46th St.
Thea. on my arrival that June; got a standing room ticket in the back of the
orchestra for the Wednesday matinee, and went to heaven. The audience tore the
house apart--high on that rare perfume that wafts over a smash hit, intoxicated
into giddiness. Follies had a
different vibe: caviar for the general, food for the intellect; confusion,
exhiliration--with an aftertaste of disappointment. It felt, in some ways, like
the American Musical ripped apart. More than a celebration, it was also a
requiem. Of course I couldn't see that then, or would I want to; not before I
could be part of that world called "Broadway." It was all still so
new to me, and unbearably exciting. On my last NY day that summer, I went back
to Nanette--another Wednesday
matinee. I had gotten into the habit of waiting outside stage doors on my first
visit, and tho I was never interested in anyone's autograph, I enjoyed watching
the performers emerge, whether the stars or the cute chorus boys rushing off to
dinner or errands between shows. Nanette
was especially fun, for the sheer number of stars; but the Palace (where Applause was playing--now with Anne
Baxter) had a long alley off 47th
St. And it was here that I was visited by an
Angel. Of course I didn't know he was an Angel at the time; just another 18
year old stage-door denizen, like I, tho with curly blonde locks and long
tanned forearms covered in golden peach-fuzz. We began a conversation (about
theater, what else) and even after four hours neither was in a hurry to leave.
It surprises me now that I made no effort to get his name or number--except
that in some way I knew he was my ectoplasmic visitation, a divine-sent Angel
to bring me a message I sorely needed to hear. On the plane home to San Francisco I decided
to start my sophmore year by dropping Accounting (for which I had neither
aptitude nor interst) and becoming a Theater major. I felt I was reborn. My
dread of returning home evaporated; an unfamiliar excitement about school
emerged. And as no one was going to change my mind on the subject, I saw no
particular reason to tell my parents about it. They'd find out eventually--when
it was too late to change it.

Search

Playing Soon on TCM

Finian's Rainbow 3/17

Kismet 3/24

About this Blog

At the intersection of Broadway and Hollywood,

the Musical has been my lifelong touchstone. How did this happen? What does it mean? Herewith an analysis of my own"glass menagerie;" a Proustian trail of memory and perhaps a final summation of my thoughts and feelings on this unrelenting vocation.

About Me

A man on the verge of a musical breakdown. Why did I do it? What did it get me? Scrapbooks full of me in the background: New York, Hollywood, San Francisco. Palm Springs. This time, boys, I'm takin' the bows.